


Eulogy

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Fake Character Death, Guardian Angels, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First John buries the one person who could have held his heart. Then he buries his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was quiet. The streetlamps casting the golden play of light across the sheer curtains visible because they never closed the heavy winter ones; not even in winter. If he did it now, to close out the world, Sherlock would have called him sentimental.

It was bad enough that someone had come and covered the mirrors in the public spaces.

Nothing else had been moved. Dust, in its eloquent display of non-inertia, lightly covered as the first hazy snow covered the ground before melting. Their mugs still on the table by the mock-lab setup in their kitchen and his, from just that morning, still by the paper and his cheaters on the small circular table beside him, he thought momentarily about cleaning them away.

He wouldn’t be needing to make two anymore.

Sighing, he covered his face with his hands and rubbed hard exasperated at the fact there was no absolution to the current state of his heart. No finite summation at the end of this longest of nights. No honor guard watching over the wonderful hero he would be burying tomorrow.

It had already begun.

The flowers, gods the flowers. Never ending. The food, the scarves and hats. A few nicotine patch boxes. Cards, stories, anonymous thank you’s and love being sent through the universe to converge on the singularity that was John Hamish Watson, M.D. blogger and only friend to one mighty brave soul that was laying in rest, a Mr. Sherlock Magnus Holmes.

If he could have spent the night with his corpse, watching over him, he would have. Had him right here, in the parlor. Sherlock would have loved that, to come home one more time. His sanctuary from the world, where he could bare his soul through composing, sing in the shower, walk around naked under his sheet because he felt depression closing in and the frivolity gave him minute lightness of being.

John used to allow him the small comfort of holding him, tousling his hair.

He was the only one.

Sherlock made sure to ruin the doctor for all others. How could he ever love someone as passionately as he had loved his best friend. They lived, truly lived together. Ate, argued, been bone weary and catty. Slept for comfort when one had nightmares and could, didn’t want to fight them alone anymore. Washed the other when the other was injured, or in his closest of mate, when he was too lost to the depths to care about himself.

He was a healer.

He loved healing, he loved caring, he could give a hang about the press or how others outside of them could not understand the meaning of unconditional. Could not understand how the love they shared was unique because they loved the soul, not the flesh. He knew Sherlock. Sherlock knew him, which was terrifying and exhilarating.

The very first night. Less than five minutes.

That was all that was needed, his heart had turned traitor at that very moment. He did not see it until days, months, almost the first year had passed really. Then, he had known. The night that changed everything for the both of them. They had known, accepted and moved forward. John had stopped dating. Sherlock started showing his internal machinations. It was new, timorous, fragile.

Gods, why hadn’t he spoke the words.

He had wonderful warm memories with him. Love, light, laughter only the two of them shared. The few times it had caught Mycroft by surprise when Sherlock gently teased and joked off-handedly with his older brother. Those times were some that he knew, going forward, that he would hold the closest. They proved that they were slowly becoming better together. Taking chances again, even if it was only within the confines of Baker Street.

Maybe one day they would have.

The promise had just begun to really slowly unravel. It might have been another year, two, never, but he knew to his marrow that they were all each other would ever need in this lifetime. Now, he would have to move forward alone. He could do it. Clothe himself in the robes of mourning that would slowly melt to show the armor that would take its place. That was already there, had been since he began to defend the frail genius he lived and breathed with. Hammered with passion for truth, polished with the praise his closest dearest friend, his brother, his charge.

It would shine in his honor.

He would be picking up their business. He would never be as astute, but he had learned so very much. He knew he could carry on Sherlock’s work. Be on the side of the angel’s; carry out his selfless work with his homeless and the Irregulars. The massive undertaking of saving those in need that society had no earthly idea existed. He was an archangel that had been on loan to mortals. He was so thankful to have known him.

Tonight, he would lie in their bed. Quiet and alone. No nightmares.

Tomorrow he would bury his hopes and dreams, take up a dead man’s cause and love every single second until his heart stopped. It was the very least he could do in memory of the greatest man he had ever known.


	2. Bury Me Deep

White. Majestic. Callas were everywhere.

Clear morning. It was going to be damp later at some point; after all it was June. The month angel’s ascended and bridal choruses rang as bright as the sun. He had helped Mycroft and their mother plan. They had asked he give the eulogy.

He was treated as a member of their very small family, being placed to the left of Mrs. Holmes during the service in the small chapel at Hailsham. Sherlock had always loved their quiet cottage home in this part of East Sussex, and the family had told John he may stay there as long as he wished.

They had never had a chance to make it out of the city other than on a case. They had spoken of it, especially after the Baskerville incident. They both personally admitted that there were some residual issues that seemed to linger, though it was more the trauma of feeling that exacting paranoia and fear on a chemical level that screamed wrong-ness.

It had stayed with Sherlock the worst.

Then shortly after, to have the arsehole Moriarty play that wicked game with his psyche. He knew what he was doing. He had known that there was a slim chance that either Sherlock or I would start doubting. Perhaps even Lestrade. He had been dosed up pretty well that night.

To get home, go through all of that, he’d sworn up a blue streak and pled with Sherlock to leave the minute the jurors found M not guilty. They immediately started to try to access what the tyrant had on the seated and on the magistrates as well. That was when they found out that the gentleman who had carefully constructed himself a cloak of obfuscation to become a viable member of the legal community was a sham. He was tied to M in some way, but they had not worked it out as yet.

Things, loose ends left to John now; he would be damned to hell if anyone was going to walk free for this. Seated, he listened to the beatific words, the homily, and the hymns. Then he stood, more smartly dressed in the custom bespoke ensemble than he ever had in his life, walked the stairs up to the pulpit, and gave his heartfelt yet subdued words that were meant to begin the healing process, meant to commiserate.

They were to remind everyone that even though the greatest man he had ever known had died in the midst of a firestorm, that the man was a hero and true friend. They found out about the threats on all their lives, how he had jumped to save the Met, Baker Street, and St.Bart’s from the mad bomber that committed suicide leaving Sherlock no other choice but to do the same.

His phone had been on, the brilliant man. He had recorded the confession. They were well on their way to beginning to corroborate all the information given. Soon, justice would be dolled out. Today was not that day, but soon John would be given the chance to make it right for his dearest companion, closest friend.

Saying what was appropriate, earning a few shaky smiles, he felt he had done well. Gliding back down the stairs, as he passed the coffin, he allowed his fingers to graze the ebony casket. If he could not feel his face, at least he could remember the feel of this, his final bed.

The Lord’s Prayer said most of the church emptied. The men donned the mourning gloves; their bands had been firmly in place since reaching Bart’s that morning. Molly had stayed with Sherlock all through the night in the old autopsy theater he loved to work in. God love that woman. He had not been alone after all.

Lestrade,Stamford, Dimmock, Algar, Lomax, Mycroft, and himself the only ones left with the casket and the man within. Everyone holding their breath, waiting for John to take the position of the first right, close to the feet, Dimmock to flank him. He took a moment to compose himself, and thanked the men for Sherlock’s care. The second he began to lift, the others were synchronous.

Raising him to their shoulders, they walked through the chapel, out of the doors. Through the flanking of people that had lined up as a procession to his grave, John allowed the tears to track down his face. There was no shame in this. His heart was being buried today right alongside the brilliance that resided in the casket he bore.

Very few words were said once they were graveside. One more prayer for the departed, and for solace for all there. Mrs. Holmes had interlocked her arms with his and Mycroft’s. He considered it an honor. They were the first to leave, to drive to the larger estate. They were expecting the other mourners shortly. Not very many had been invited to the mourning house, but there were those who were close enough to be allowed into the home.

John spoke with Sherlock’s mother in her office as she explained the will and trusts and lands that would be going to him. Mycroft and she would see no less. Sherlock had wished it, so it would be. She wanted him to look on himself as her son, as he had no mother or father, she would be more than happy to fulfill that role for one of the men instrumental in bringing her son back to the family before his untimely demise.

Mycroft came in, very quietly, and placed his hand on John’s shoulder, lending himself for bolstering if necessary. Letting John know he still had on hundred percent of Mycroft’s resources and help in dismantling what was left of M’s web. He was so very grateful for everything.

They all went together to meet the guests, to socialize, and later when the men retired, to war counsel. Lestrade and Dimmock had stayed behind to help combine their efforts into what was going to occur within the Met. There were quite a few who were going to be in jail very swiftly, others that were going to lose their job and possibly never return to society. None of the men questioned this, or spoke of it. This was just understood.

Thanking them again, John took his leave promising to be back in two days at the main house, heading to the quietly cloistered cottage in the wooded area two miles away that now belonged solely to him. The house had a few small lamps on and a cheery fire had been lit to welcome him and warm the place for his joints that he was refusing to admit were strained due to stress and fatigue.

Looking he found a good stock of wines, found a good Pinot Grigio, a glass and sunk into one of the two massively overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. Filling his glass, not giving an arse about it, he downed half quickly. Choosing to finish the last half watching the fire gathering wool to knit all the fond memories together.

It took him just over an hour to finish the first bottle. He was half way into the second when the tears came again. Placing his glass on the table that was between his and the other empty chair, he grabbed the older thin quilt and curled into his chair embracing the wracking sobs, knowing it was apart of the grieving.

The loss was so compounded here. Knowing now what Sherlock had seen as their future together, knowing his final wishes were that of the elevation of the regard a spouse would have received. A brother not born into the family, but given the niche as a place of honor knowing that was what he not only had earned in their eyes, but as apart of the wishes of his dear friend.

It was dark and growing very late, but he had to go see him just once more by himself.

Locking the place up, he headed toward the cemetery through the forested path to town. When he reached the edge of the cemetery, the night air had helped sober him. Going to the site, he sat beside the large bed of calla’s that had been bolstered by new bouquets from other mourners, people wishing to show support.

Taking the cards, he pocketed them for later to read when he went back to their cottage.

He sat, speaking in quiet tones, singing to the bones of his lost love until the moon was high and the night became crisp. Saying his goodbyes, patting the loamy ground softly as if tucking his friend in snug, he stood. Taking one of the bunches, the one he knew was from the Irregulars; he strode off back down the path towards his new home.


	3. Breathe in your Bones

John sat stoking the embers and added a couple of small logs to the fire as soon as he walked through the door. Curling back into the nest he had created earlier, he grabbed his glass and finished the second half of the second bottle. Debating the third, he decided if there was ever a night to be completely pissed, it would be a night like this.

Opening the third bottle, he dispensed with the glass. Sod it all, if he was going to get fully snockered, to hell with the pleasantries such as a glass. Taking his shoes and argyles off, he also dispensed with his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

He didn’t give a care if he had ruined it sitting on the ground at the cemetery either. It was highly unlikely this suit would ever be laundered our worn again. He had decided to pack it just as it was with the mourning gloves tonight when he finally thought he could sleep. The only thing he would keep out and not store would be the beautiful salmon colored tie that Sherlock had made for him for Easter service. That he would keep with him to wear on Sherlock’s birthday, or maybe their anniversary of when they met.

These days still held meaning for John, most likely always would.

Checking his mobile for the first time that day, he half-figured that Sherlock had sent him one wondering where he was, and then remembered you can’t text from heaven, so it wouldn’t be possible. Looking over his messages, it was all well wishes and sympathy. Going to his laptop on the counter, he checked his email.

That was the second time in two weeks his heart stopped.

There as an email from Sherlock’s email address. He knew it had to be one of those post-humus services that were out there, but it was still damn un-nerving. His hand trembling, he quickly clicked on it before changing his mind.

Dearest John,

If you are reading this, it means I did not survive Moriarty’s plans. There is a parcel you should receive very shortly as well at my mother’s cottage, which should be yours now. Please open it.

It is my final gift to you my friend.

I have so many words at my disposal, but none will ever be able to wrap our existence in any true semblance of how I feel for you. You were my guiding light during my darkest days, my guiding star on those danger nights. You became the air that filled my lungs and the breath and warmth I felt in our bed at night.

I had rather have lived to find out if you were as thoughtful of a lover as I thought you might be. I am so very sorry I was unable to articulate the depths of this all too much ever expansive humbling joy that I feel around you.

Please just know you settled my soul, John Hamish. You had my heart; I would have given my body and name to you as well. Anything you wished. One day, if we had survived those days and nights another 20 years, we could have permanently retired to our little cottage. I could have studied my bees, you could have written that novel you are picking away at even now.

We would have been wondrous.

You would have been, until the day I died, my everything.

I guess in a way you still were.

I love you, Hamish. I’ll see you, if there is another life after this…

S.H.

Shutting his laptop, he walked over toward the fire. Making sure he still had his bottle, he took a deep pull. Not a danger night. Not tonight. Tonight, he could survive this because he had too much to complete. Later, he would have cases. He would make Sherlock proud if he could. They would come, he had no doubt. On those nights he could have Lestrade come get him and they could get pissed together, or go over really old cases, maybe reminisce.

For tonight, he finished the bottle, dampened the fire to go to embers, stood wrapped in the thin quilt and made his way to the master suite. Dropping the quilt on the floor after closing and locking his room, he dropped his shirt, trousers and under things in a steady path toward his bath. Turning the water on he ran it hot. It would feel so good to lie in and bliss a bit before sleeping.

Once filled enough, he stepped in hissing at the heat. It really did feel delicious once he gave it a moment. Heat infused him and all he could think of was Sherlock. He was a minor nuclear reactor when he slept. It really used to be a thing to behold. Dunking under the water, he submerged for a few seconds with his eyes closed.

Pushing himself back up through the plane of water he breathed in deeply. Air, crisp with timber, slightly smoky filled his senses. He could not help to wish that Sherlock were spooning him this instant. Feeling a chilling draft, he shivered slightly dipping to warm himself, then started washing himself for bed. He was using the new soap that Sherlock had bought because he enjoyed the bergamot and cinnamon smell over John’s base sent.

He had always said it calmed him, reinforced some sort of primitive feeling of safety and home. John never worried about it. Helped Sherlock relax and sleep he wasn’t going to question it. He only used it at night. In the morning it was always the clean warm vanilla that he enjoyed. The happiness of a sugar cookie first thing in the morning. Always put things to right for him.

Rinsing, he finished the rest of his nightly routine. Before heading to bed, he looked out the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. 

“Good night my love; sleep well.”


	4. Where I May Follow

When John woke up, it was still dark out. Not surprising, no Sherlock to keep him warm. Rising from the bed, he goes for the thick robe hung just behind the bedroom door, before heading out to stoke the embers and set the kettle on the hook.

Walking back into the kitchen he grabs the heavy mitts, tea setup, sugar, and a sleeve of biscuits. Placing everything on a tray, he heads back into the living room. God, he could really live here. Move from the city, open a practice in town maybe. For now, this was enough.

He’d ask Mrs. Hudson if he could keep the flat, possibly buy the building outright. She would always have a place until she passed, could enjoy herself with travel with her close friend Mrs. Turner. He’d make a note to discuss it with her, see how she felt. It would be nice to give her something in return for all the times she helped the both of them.

Pulling the hook out of the fireplace, he added the tea waiting for it to steep. Breathing deeply he began to doze watching the small fire flicker brightly. His phone, by habit, was in his pocket. Also, by habit, he looked at it in reflex, his mind still going to Sherlock and his three a.m. requests.

Can’t sleep?

Hmmm…blocked…

I hope you chose the chamomile.

He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

Slowly putting the phone down he sighed. Using the mitt, he pulled the kettle off the hook and poured the tea in two cups. Adding sugar and milk to one honey to the other. Breaking open the biscuits, he took out three wafers for himself and two for the other cup.

No other texts, but he had not responded. Maybe whom ever it was gave up figuring him asleep or not wanting to be disturbed. It was most likely Mycroft. This place had to be as bugged and visually compromised as Baker Street. He’d tell him that morning, well after the sun rose all the way, that he was doing better out here, away from everything.

It was true. In some ways he felt as if he were closer to the soul of the man he loved here, more than in London. Yes, that had been their residence, but this, this felt like their home. He could imagine Sherlock standing playing his violin just over there. Some old lullaby to help quell John’s apprehension after a terribly horrific nightmare. Sipping his tea, he bit into another biscuit.

Gods, he missed him so. His heart ached. He could see the horizon beginning to change through the window beyond him in the dining nook. Walking over, he leaned against one of the main pillars close to the windows. He had left all of them open, as in Baker. He desperately needed the light and warmth. Even if it felt artificial after his brilliant sun. The beautifully mottled sky was turning into the riotous oranges and reds of his favorite rose kissed up against the fleeting bruised twilight chasing the night away readying for true dawn.

This was a moment of magic and possibilities. The pre-dawn. The almost. The mystically tangible haze of yester-night’s dew kissed garden called to him. Scooting his feet into his house flats, he opened the windows to the porch and went into the garden. The air cooler, but not unbearable with the quilt wrapped with his robe, he looked up at the fading stars and night sky. In the tree line, he saw twinkling. Amused he began drafting stories of fairies and the prince that lay in wait of his lover faire to come grant him first loves kiss.

First loves kiss. How he would love to have that memory.

His phone had vibrated several times inside the cottage so he figured he should head back in to see who was checking up on him. Once inside, he shut and locked the doors yet again before heading to his soon to be favorite chair and the little table that was taken up by the tea service, his phone on the tray beside his empty cup.

Please be safe.

Do not tarry.

I miss you.

It was official; he had gone round the bend. Hang the damned time; he rang Mycroft who answered almost immediately. John asked if he could come to the cottage because he felt a little unstable to be out by himself, and then amended that wasn’t exactly true, but that he felt better there for the moment.

Fifteen minutes later Mycroft was at his door letting himself in. John welcomed him in smiling. They spoke and he showed the man who would be his brother the texts that he had received since coming to the cottage. When he had received them, and where he was, as well as what he was doing at those times. A small crease came across Mycroft’s forehead, one of worry.

They decided it was some sort of program that was sending out timed texts based on John’s patterns. It was Sherlock, so anything was possible. He had sent an email from the dead, so how was this any different really. Mycroft was genuinely thankful that he had not received any of the after-life handholding that John was receiving, but he was glad for John if it was easing his melancholy. All he did was remind the doctor to come back to the manor day after tomorrow for breakfast as he had promised their mother he would be there.

John smiled warmly at that.

Their mother.

He was a Holmes.

That made him stop Mycroft before he could leave to ask a couple of quick legal questions over a second cup of tea regarding Baker and other possibilities. If he was going to be a Holmes, he might as well be a Holmes after all. He asked his brother too see how mother would feel about it, to see if she would object, or feel it went too far.

He had quasi-proof if he needed it, that Sherlock would have married him. This way, if something happened to him while hunting the cottage, trust, everything could be reabsorbed into the family holdings; Mycroft was pleased with the efficiency of John’s thoughts and promised to pass it by mother and the family attorneys.

It was time to bury John Watson.


	5. Beautiful Disaster

In the end, it didn’t take that long really; they had been ready with his new persona and life in ten days. Well, he had been shown ten days after the discussion. Who knows, at this point whether or not this was already loosely based on a contingency plan that Mycroft had had in the wings.

As for it to take effect, that took around sixty-two.

He had moved back to Baker as to keep his home in the country, it wouldn’t have done for him to stay and then just claim to be somebody else. He retained his physician status and most of his military career, and also gained a knighthood for services for the crown and acts of bravery. This tickled him to no end knowing that Sherlock, if watching would be quite proud of his John at that very moment.

Well, not John. He would be proud of Auryn Rhys Holmes, his cousin on his father’s side. His mother had died in childbirth and his father, Siger’s brother, had passed only 4 years ago. He missed them, but had spent most of his time away in posh schools inAmerica, then home with private tutor’s, and eventually landed at St. Bart’s on a bohemian whim. He had wanted to help, and looked at it as an opportunity to give back; he just wasn’t expecting on getting shot in the village where he had been helping at.

Yes, Sherlock would be very proud of his cousin indeed.

The day of John’s death had not been an easy one. He had to go through the day as if it were any other. Later, they could know. There would be tentative whispers to the correct ears in about a year’s time. They planned it so that Mrs. Hudson would be on holiday with Mrs. Turner when Mycroft and Lestrade found his body. Lestrade received the call at 1:02 p.m. on September 17.

He had rushed there, Mycroft pulling up right after as Lestrade unlocked the front main door. Both of the men had rushed upstairs to find John dead in the master bedroom from an overdose, of what later would be found as a mix of cocaine and morphine. He had left a note for both Lestrade and Molly to be read immediately. One for Mrs. Hudson for when she got back home. Of course, the dear woman would be in on it. She knew how to keep her secrets. They didn’t want to risk a heart attack.

Later, Mycroft and Lestrade would go through the men’s flat and catalog and box everything. It was being taken to one of the estate’s storage facilities. While cleaning, they found both of the men’s journals. They took turns reading the days that corresponded or those that were close to the same date. Sherlock was fastidious only if experimenting or finding out something new about John. John, on the other hand wrote everyday.

They found out how the two slowly fell in love with one another and how quickly Sherlock knew they would be inseparable. It took John a little longer. Then, the night of the pool. When it became John’s life in the balance, Sherlock would have killed them all than have John die or suffer at Moriarty’s hands. John trusted Sherlock enough to take their lives because he knew in that instant life would be nothing without one Sherlock M. Holmes.

They had slept together almost every night, at least stayed in the same bed. Sherlock would get up but never stray further than the kitchen in case John, no Hamish, needed him. He had taken to calling him Hamish, beloved, and his heart. It became too much to bear for both men so they moved back to John’s. It was no better. It became worse. He was so resolute about not pushing Sherlock’s boundaries. Taking their time.

John expressed his physical need more freely, but they also learned how impassioned he was about life from that point on as well. How he would do anything to end the self-harming, the drug abuse, which he had won up until the day Sherlock committed suicide. They still had to war with depression, but they had handled it.

Then the talk began of a ring. On both sides. Secreted, neither knowing. It saddened Lestrade to no end, but he had to find the rings. He had to know if they had been made. Maybe he could bury them with John. John’s on his finger, Sherlock’s in his coat pocket for the other side. Somehow make this right in his mind, somehow.

That is how the day before the funeral, at his wake, John Hamish Watson, came into possession of both rings. The viewing window had not been very long, as the Holmes family had asked for privacy to bury one of their own. Harriet was no where to be found, most likely on another bender.

Lestrade could not bring himself to put the ring on, so Mycroft did. He also added the signet ring with the families crest on his right hand opposite the engraved band Sherlock had made for him. His brother then put Sherlock’s ring box in John’s breast pocket by his heart. Gregory was crying more than any rational man should, so Mycroft escorted him quietly to his private den on the opposite wing to go have a full bottle of something very damning and piss the night away together.

There were very few who came to the viewing. No one stayed very long. After the designated time, the doors were shut and locked. Through a side hidden panel, two nurses came and took the doctor to Mycroft’s wing through back ways in the family estate. They had placed a ballistic dummy of the proper weight in the coffin and sealed it.

Tomorrow, John H. Watson would join Sherlock M. Holmes beside him under the willow tree. How terribly poetic and sentimental Mycroft was becoming these days. He blamed it on John completely. Their mother remained cloistered in her rooms, as to give the appearance of grieving mother. One death right after the other. It was hard on her.

Everyone from the yard and Sarah’s facility were there the next day. Even some of his company that was home on leave, a few he had treated in combat as well. Mycroft had everything recorded so that he may watch it later if he wished.

Two days later, on September 29th, Auryn came to move toSussex with his family.

The deep auburn locks and spirited beard spoke of barely checked fierceness of will, but his eyes, they were a lovely shade of tidal green. They spoke volumes before someone ever heard his voice. He was quick witted yet kind. He took over their cottage and began tucking in for the winter while slowly searching for a good location for a small office.

Yes, Auryn could call this home.


	6. Settling

Settling in to his new life, John woke ready to move on the operation at hand. Mycroft met him that early morning with his dossier and his updated passports. Today, Auryn was going to be able to get some comeuppance. Today was a bad day.

Locking up for the day, he headed to the main estate to meet with mother for breakfast. She was as steadfast as ever, reminding him he belonged home with them and to be cautious if he could. She understood the game very well, but had learned years ago showing worry would do nothing but cause second guessing in her men.

She had the kitchen prepare him some small jam tarts to go with his tea. A little sweet with the bitter, she knew this juxtaposition well. Auryn enjoyed his time with her chatting about the office he had procured just a little out of the center of town. It was an old schoolhouse with large attached kitchen, ten boarding rooms, and as luck would have it a headmaster’s quarters just off the main building he would convert to a small surgery and birthing area for the local midwife to use at her leisure.

Mother seemed pleased with the purchase and the sound idea about the miniature women’s clinic. It was about time as far as she was concerned that the women had their own office instead of having to go into town properly. Now they could have a small center here. He would bring in two nurses from the local area if possible to assist if he picked up enough patients.

Finishing breakfast, he rose and kissed the dear woman on her forehead breathing the words he always said on days such as these. Comforts of being back soon, promising to try to come back whole to the family, then asking her to bring the blue hydrangeas this time from him to Sherlock, maybe with some of the last of the Queen Anne’s. The last bouquet from the main heated green house for that fall. They were some of Sherlock’s favorites due to the color variations you could force; he had loved playing with them in his younger years.

Taking on of Mycroft’s unmarked cars, he was driven to the private airstrip. His only luggage was his worn leather knaps sack and his carry-on shoulder bag. On days like this he worked very light. Messaging his brother, he saluted to Mycroft’s agent, Anthea, as he boarded ready to find his mark. They had formed a tenuous working relationship and friendship, which was helpful as they both had Mycroft’s interests in mind secondary only to his desire for those who murdered his beloved to ultimately pay.

The next time he would touch sovereign soil would be three and a half weeks out, just a two scant days before Christmas. Once his flight was close, he texted Mycroft that he would, indeed be home for the celebration. It would be so good to see the snow again after all of the grit he had been reintroduced too. He felt giddy. Twenty two total no longer in service. Today was a good day.

Mycroft met him in the vehicle sent to pick Auryn up and take him home. They debriefed on the way to his cottage laughing heartily at the gruff disheveled man who he became while away admitting he couldn’t wait to have a scorching bath and freezing roll in the snow to get clean again. His spirits had lifted considerably as Mycroft informant him of all of the changes and arrests that had very discreetly been made at the Met under the careful hand of the minor government official and Lestrade.

This was something that would come as a surprise at the time, but Mycroft felt that Auryn’s time had come. It was time to introduce his new-self to Mycroft’s new interest. His brother explained how it had happened slowly, much as Sherlock and John’s relationship had. Over the last year they had been working so closely to clear both of the men’s names, even in death.

Then, he explained that the journals are what did them in. Lestrade had kept them on his desk in his office ever since the two had initially found them along with the one picture of the two of them that had been in Sherlock’s room from some candid moment. Those few tokens fueled him, no matter how tired or ill; to seek justice for the two men he missed most.Londonhad been their battlefield and as such they had forged such tight bonds the three of them.

Auryn missed Gregory, but it would be a risk. The two decided it would be worth it.

Christmas eve, Gregory came to the main manor for the first time as a family guest and companion to Mycroft. When Auryn strode into his brother’s den, he poured himself a whiskey and sat by the other two gentlemen waiting to be introduced all over again to Lestrade.

He was friendly, but a little wary, his deductive skills hitting on lower levels that something was not as it seemed. Looking closer over the hour long discussion that had wound and meandered into the early evening Gregory finally put it together. In the end he would tell the two it was the band on the doctor’s left hand that had ultimately given it away. It had just taken Gregory a small amount of time to understand why it bothered him so.

Standing, he had put his drink down, hauled Auryn up into his arms, and held him until he thought he would never breathe again. Laughing, then misting when he looked over the doctor’s shoulder to his own lover. Moving, he clasped Mycroft’s hand and pulled them all into another hug.

It took the better part of the night after the family dinner and festivities to explain everything, but in the end Gregory was just so thankful to have one of his two friends still among the living. He tentatively brought up the idea of bringing cases around again, if Auryn would like to pick up where his old life had left. Of course he would, it would be in honor of the only man esteemed enough to win the heart of John.

The next morning, he excused himself for a moment; going to his cottage to pick up the parcel he knew would be waiting for him. It had happened every holiday and birthday since Sherlock’s passing. The first was the delivery of their skull with a hand written letter once again vowing eternal sentiment and hope to bolster John at that time.

The next, was Christmas when the lavishly wrapped rectangular box had shown up, with the beautiful full sized bench chest at the foot of his bed while he slept. Mycroft had helped that time. Inside the deep chest, Sherlock’s most prized violin. In the box, a viola with unparalleled quality. Just for him. Sherlock again had a card prepared for this most personal of gifts. Auryn could see that he had written it sometime in the spring before either of them had known of the danger and sorrow that were to come.

The end of January, the night they met there was a pull of the bell outside his door. His heart had stopped for a moment, but he had collected himself. What was waiting was a wrapped meal from Angelo’s and a bouquet of the purest white lily’s and deep red roses he had ever seen. No card this time. Just warm memories. That night, at 2:12 am, a text came through promising adventure this time, in another life. Thanking him for being a friend.

He had taken a photograph of his doorstep with the items earlier and a screencap of the texts so he would always have them when needed to raise his spirits. As he settled he forwarded them both to Mycroft while he turned in for the night. Letting him know tonight was not a danger night after all.

The next one was left on his birthday in July. He had been off on his first run then, no one knew to expect it. The caretakers of the property let Mycroft know that a parcel had been delivered to the cottage and that they had placed it on the counter but that it was perishable. He made a small dent of time to stop by that evening and was astounded. It was a perfectly small four layer cake. No words written, just a lovely shade of blue.

This time, Mycroft took the picture, wrapped the cake carefully and put it in the freezer for Auryn to enjoy when he returned. The next morning, when he was contacted he forwarded the picture and received thanks for the thoughtfulness of storing it.

Auryn knew that there would be some small gift there, another tangible link to the love in his heart. He was marveling at how through out the year had been and if it would always be this way, or if he would ever receive a gift with a notice that it would be his last.

As he rounded the path, he opened his gate with a smile. Their home.

The small front was in stark relief of dark and white from the snow and ice. Everything just lightly dusted, as if angels knew this would make his heart take flight in the wonder he now felt. Taking in the scene before him, he smiled. There was a scarf, just like Sherlock’s ruined one tied in a perfect bow on the door pull with a scrolled note in the middle. Untying it, he went into the cottage and noticed that his fire had been brought up to a cheery warm thing and that the kettle was on the hook waiting.

He would bless Mycroft later.


	7. Danger Night

Lestrade met Auryn at the cottage. It was a danger night.

He would not be gone this year and he knew it would to tempting to visit. Go toBaker Street, visit Bart’s, maybe stop in at one of their favorite eateries. Maybe worse; the hole felt immense tonight, not even Mycroft would have been able to handle the weight of the grief.

This had hit a day early.

They were not prepared for it to have this type of hold on him. Shaving, he had been shaving. Then it overcame him the feeling to just slit his throat. Not a thought, a compulsion, a need. More than that, a biological imperative. He had placed the straight razor down and walked out of the room to the living room. He could give an arse if he was only in is towel and Mycroft had the feed live today. He looked directly at the only pin-head camera that had ever been pointed out to him for emergency sake and dialed his brother directly.

When he answered, Auryn crumbled.

Gregory came with two bottles of scotch and plain dinner of rough meal bread and a dense lamb stew, weather be hanged. Who gave a care if it was June; this was fine food for getting a piss on. They walked about the grounds a while, the air sweet and solid. It was a very fine day, hadn’t even reached into the eighties. The shade dense under the massive canopies above them.

The talked of the newness of his two favorite men and how they were getting on between the stress of the jobs they held and their relationship. Gregory admitted to it being hard but worth it. He had learned so much from reading their old journals about not taking things for granted in anyone, not just a significant other. It was so heart rending to read them, but inspiring to know that Auryn’s feelings had never changed. That after all this time, he still had a soft box with a band nestled away.

He still wore the family signet and his band from the lover he never knew.

Hopelessly romantic to a fault, Auryn simply stated he was never lonely, it was that he had begun experiencing some of the largesse that Sherlock had always complained of. There were times that he felt the need for a good puzzle, but there was none. He enjoyed his new life, found it rewarding for the most part. Then there were the times he was away allowing his training to kick to the surface. He had studied Bartitsu, which had come in handy once already.

They discussed is once almost-lover over dinner, then opened the first bottle. He went upstairs, grabbed two Fuente Opus, the crystal ashtray that Sherlock had stole from Her Majesty, and his small smoke bag. They settled in the well loved chairs in front of the fireplace and lit up. The gloves came off at that point. That was their rule.

Auryn opened up about the wrenching instantaneous need to cut his throat earlier. It had surprised him though he couldn’t be arsed to care, that is what really bothered him. He no longer cared about his own life not at that moment anyway. He needed to find someone that could be a companion. Nothing would ever compare to Sherlock, but he was beginning to become lonely in his new life.

Lestrade commiserated about the loss of one of his closest friends. It hadn’t been the same since they lost him. The unsolved cases were beginning to rise again and it did worry the Inspector. He had brought him a few to look over tonight hoping that he might see something that he had missed. He wouldn’t deem to ask My as that was one of their hard and fast rules: no work at home. Besides he was monitoring other situations abroad that were far more pressing.

Around eight, they grabbed the second bottle and decided to head toward the main manor two miles down the way through the small winding footpath in the forest.

It was a good night to walk.

A good night to live and laugh. To reminisce.

They found their way instead to the old silent cemetery and stole their way through the markers winding toward their destination. He was loathe to see it. He had not been here since the service and burial. Now, there would be a stone, a tablet of ebony with gilded letters.

Letters he could lovingly trace until he himself expired. Then he would be happily buried beside to rot with his ether-realm’d lover in the umbra.

In this place, would he still feel, he wondered.

As they reached their charge, Auryn fell to his knees, the ever faithful lover of the bones safely ensconced in the earth below. If he could he would bury himself in the loamy earth by his own hands just to press upon his lover’s body once again. Morbidity be damned, he no longer wondered why necrophilia was romanticized. If Sherlock were his Juliet, he would indeed have claimed purchase to his softly rose tinged lips.

They were no longer, but before, they were.

He would ever regret not being able to tease the sweet humidity that would have been tartly rich infused of milky tea and nicotine burn. How he pined, even now for just that once small moment in time where everything was possibility and light; not warm earth and deep unabated slumber.

Rising to his knees, he kissed the cold stone instead. Murmuring thanks pouring graces into the air hoping they could some how reach the man he loved so very dearly before standing and departing once again.


	8. White Noise

Heading home, all good times had by the two men, they parted ways.

Fond memories swathed his heart bolstering it as he worked his way through the soft greenery that unfolded around him along the path. It seemed so very long ago, he would have given almost anything to have Sherlock with him silently moving through the night through the ferns and loaming twinkling depths of this evening.

Now, he would love to have the man beside him, barking mad about absolutely killing his beautiful bespoke shoes on this holiday milling through the walking path between the manor and their cottage. No, his beloved would rather have been in bed for the day reading to him, enjoying each other through words and maybe later, a duet. Even later still a piping hot bath and more words, stories this time. They had the running child’s story, the fairy tale that John was planning on writing and possibly publishing that they would knock about a bit and he would write up a draft of their discussion before going to bed.

But neither Sherlock, nor John existed anymore on this plane. Now there was Auryn and his full yet broken heart that longed for promises fulfilled and lover’s sighs that he was left to imagining. The supple alabaster skin left to sense memories and pale comparisons.

How he missed that indomitable man, loved him still almost two years later.

Two years since the fall.

Making his way to his home, he noticed the fire had been stoked as a rosy orange glow could be seen from the back windows dancing along casting warmth on the leather of the seats before it. How marvelous that would feel to his stress-worn body. Then music, something he did not recognize falling through the air hauntingly remorseful and somber. Gravid with unrequited emotions, unspoken delights and promises having eluded the composer.

Where was this coming from?

Must be a recording as it was played throughout the sound system in their home. What a wonderful gift to be sent for him, this had to be Sherlock’s. He knew it to his marrow. Going to his case, he was thankful now he had left it out on the nook table as inspiration hit him desperately hard. If he could not physically hold the man he loved he very damn well would play with him, even if only for himself. Maybe, just maybe Sherlock would be able to feel the resonance of his fingers upon the strings as the bow slid across finding harmonies, bolstering, leading, dancing around his ever present melody.

He had placed his lap top on and began recording, so he could lose the technical side of his musician’s brain and solely press into his heart and just feel. Run with his lover to a time before loss, headlong into the deep nights and restless wanting. The passion that was innocent and pure and raw that was new to them both on different levels and held different meanings for the two at the time.

Then it began into the second movement, closer to his lullaby, sweet, loving, poignant. Tears coursed down quietly tracing his cheeks with salty lines as he closes his eyes and allowed himself to be swept away. To be brought to safe harbor by the man that had loved him so he gave his life to secure his physicians.

He once had told him of the fine silvery lines that held him, knit him together that he could see in his palace. He said it was terrifying and exhilarating to know that someone could knit another’s soul and heal it and bind them as well. The healing of old scars and new hurts. John had tried his damndest to lessen the harshness of day of emotion that others could never understand. He was the balm that soothed the daily burns that were experienced by his fragile brilliant love.

As it turned yet again, he knew the ending. He could feel the hope rising, the complement now to his leading voice. The drive he was pursuing in finding his own melody and new secondary’s that echoed the original movement he longed for. He knew he could be whole again, knew it would only be when Sherlock was back in his arms. He found himself fervently praying for his archangel for the first time in two years, begging him to come back to his physician yet again. To not be afraid to fly with him as his fingers flew now.

As it ended, he held. Eyes closed close to a meditate state he didn’t want to break the silent communication, the prayers he was throwing to heaven entreating God for his angel. Hitting his knees before the fireplace, he lowered his viola to the ground and curled over his knees in an ages old position of supplication.

Everything had been wrung from him, in between the whiskey, the night, and the music especially he felt languid and emptied. Relaxing in this child’s pose he allowed himself to slightly doze, to reach his inner self for just a few moments allow the dream to exist.

The icy edges of his lovers fingers skated along the like of is spine. Feeling him kneel beside him he smiled as he felt both hands gently press and hold onto his shoulders. He had missed him so; he had committed it to memory so very well. He felt the flutter of movement, then a questioning finger beneath his chin. He could not open his eyes and break what he had conjured with the fairie magic he had borrowed from their tale.

He knew it was him, and he was not afraid. Tilting his face upward, his lips were claimed chastely but the icy soft ones that now covered his asking entrance, how could he deny. As he opened, he was filled with light, he felt it settle about them cocooning them and see it around the edges of his closed eyes.

“Hamish…”

“No, no longer…call me Rhys.”

“Is this your given name my brother? My one?”

“It is now until the day I die. I took your name.”

The long finger hand traced its path to take up his left hand and hold it, linking their fingers together. His ring felt like it was coldfire against his skin. He couldn’t be bothered with it. Instead he leaned in askance and was immediately taken again. The movement perfect. Everything, all hope he held was flooding him. Bringing his free hand up he ran his hand through his beloved’s hair.

“Oh the Gods must favor me tonight. Take me to bed beloved.”

They stood together as Sherlock wrapped his arms around them both; and instant later they were in their room. He felt himself turned around to face the bed as the long cool fingers ghosted down to the hem of his jumper and pulled it swiftly off of his body then returned for the buttons beginning at the top and popping them efficiently finally untucking and finishing the last three.

Then they were everywhere.

His hands became fire scorching him between the band of his trousers and the flesh below. His hands moving up his body pressing him closer to Sherlock’s chest. His warmth, his heart, reforming Auryn into his more perfect version. Kissing his neck, wrapping him and holding him near. So knowing and unsure.

“Tell me Rhys.”

Turning back around, he works on Sherlock’s clothes as well, moving to push him onto their bed after throwing his great coat out of the way. Unfastening, unbuttoning, moving together as they slowly dance as countless lover’s before them in discovery. Wrapped into their silence, everything else was white noise.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second story in the series.


End file.
